Bad Manners

Poem by Jack Kerouac

Jazz killed itself
But don't let poetry kill itself

Don't be afraid
of the cold night air

Don't listen to institutions
when you return manuscripts to
brownstone

don't bow & scuffle
for Editch Wharton pioneers
or ursula major nebraska prose
just hang in your own backyard
& laugh pray pretty
cake trombone
& if somebody give you beads
juju, jew, or otherwise,

sleep with them around your neck

Your dreams'll maybe better

There's no rain
there's no me,
I'm tellin ya man
sure as shit